There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet

 

I'm hustling along. Gotta check on Mom. She's been going downhill lately. She can barely get out of bed. And Dad’s right there with her, picking fights as usual. It gets so bad the neighbors bang on the pipes and yell at them to cut out their nonsense.

I'm passing by the oil depot. Gotta keep your wits about you here – there's a whole pack of stray dogs hanging around. If they come at you, you're toast. So, I give them a wide berth, sticking to the far side of the road.

The depot's driveway isn't just paved with asphalt, it's got concrete in spots. But somehow, there's still places where the mud is ankle-deep. Where the hell does it come from?

After the depot, I walk past the fire department's training ground. Dad used to bring the whole family here when we were kids. He'd show off how his tough-as-nails buddies would put out fires in the practice area and then scale a sheer wooden wall. We'd sit on these open bleachers, getting absolutely roasted by the sun. When we got home, Mom would slather her reddened shoulders with petroleum jelly.

Across from the training ground is the hospital. I remember coming here with Mom to visit her dad, my grandpa. He had cancer and was living out his last days. Mom would bring him these gorgeous red apples (she never bought me ones like that) and peaches (which I rarely got to eat).

Up on the hill right in front of me is the factory where Mom used to work as a press operator. Grandpa put in his time there too, back in the day. He was a top-notch specialist, well respected. In our communal apartment, we had this engraved samovar sitting on top of the cabinet– a certificate of appreciation by the factory bigwigs to Grandpa. The factory kept thousands employed. We never knew exactly what they made there. We just knew it was always buzzing, especially when things got tense internationally or a conflict flared up on a far-off continent. They also turned out a few civilian goods like fire extinguishers, primus stoves, camping gear, and a few hardware items.

A railway spur ran up to one side of the factory. Railcars loaded with finished products used to roll out of the wide gates. On the other side, a huge concrete pipe stuck out from under the stone fence. It spewed out a turbulent stream of murky liquid. The stuff was a brownish-rusty color, flecked with spots of fuel oil and clots of different kinds of chemicals. That sludge painted the sides of the ditch it ran through in all the colors of the rainbow as it streamed toward our local river...

I'm walking along the factory's stone wall. It's all crooked now, with massive chunks missing here and there. I peer at the workshops on the other side of the wall. Windows are smashed out. There’s total devastation and silence, like a graveyard. It’s obvious that nobody's worked here in ages. There’s not a soul at the factory gates. And there’s no one in the guardhouses where armed security guards used to stand. That's it. The factory's done for. It’s sad to say, but after the collapse of the USSR and the "liberalization" of the economy, this has been the fate of many of the enterprises in our big industrial city.

There was a time, though, when life was buzzing around the factory, not to mention inside it. You'd really see that after the workers were paid on the 5th and 20th of each month. That’s when they’d be scurrying around like ants on an anthill. More than a few would duck into the liquor section of the nearest shop. The impatient ones would knock their vodka back right there in the store while perched on the windowsill, maybe chasing it with a candy, sometimes not even bothering with that. A bunch of guys who'd drunk more than they could handle would be sprawled on the hillside where the factory sat, looking to the world like "The Storming of Sapun Mountain." Once, one of them propped himself up on an elbow and waved a hand clutching a piece of cake at me.

"Hey, kid! Come ‘ere. I got a treat for you."

I wanted that cake something fierce, but Mom grabbed hold of my elbow and said: "Don't you dare!" To the guy, she said sweetly, "Thanks! You enjoy it yourself."

Ah, those were the days…

I'm walking along the fence and see some guy coming my way.

"Hey, buddy!" I call out. "What's the deal with the factory? Is it still running?"

The guy glances around, eyeing me suspiciously.

"What's it to you?"

"Just curious, that's all."

“Why didn’t you leave and go somewhere else?"

“Like where?"

“To hell!" the guy snaps. "There’s all kinds snooping around here. You an American spy?"

"Nah, I'm Japanese."

"Well, get lost then! There’s too many curious types around here."

I keep walking. What a vigilant comrade I've run into...

Well, I'll be damned. Look who that is. Tanka! I recognize her right off, though I couldn't tell you exactly how many years it's been since I last saw her. She clocked me right away, too. Tanka Chizhova used to live above us in our old two-story building. She was the girl next door, a year younger than me. Back then, in our preschool days, that was a big gap. To be honest, she was my first love. We were sweet on each other, thick as thieves. We swore eternal love to each other out behind the sheds and showed each other how boys differ from girls. At home, I drew her portrait with colored pencils. Tanka loved it, especially the red coat I put her in. Standing under my window, she'd yell, "Seyozh! (Neither of us could pronounce our 'R’s', but I also couldn't say 'Sh' and stuttered to boot.) Come out and play! Let's be fwiends!" We were great friends, and it broke my heart to leave Tanka when we got our own Khrushchyovka apartment and moved out of the communal flat. After that, I only bumped into Tanka by chance, and rarely at that.

For a while, she worked as a salesgirl in a haberdashery, and I'd drop by sometimes. We'd stand around and shoot the breeze about life and nothing in particular.

“Long time no see," she says breezily, as though we'd run into each other just yesterday.

"Oh, ages," I agree. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

"Quit your lying, Seryozhka! But never mind that, tell me how your kids are doing. Have they made you a grandpa yet?"

"They have. My grandson’s about to start school. How are things at home?"

I know things aren't great on that front with her. Her first husband, the father of her son, got hit by a car. She told me she’d kicked the second one out and said: "What do I need that drunk bully for?"

And she's had trouble with her son too. He did time in prison.

"How's your boy?" I ask.

"The idiot's back inside," she replies.

"What for this time?"

"Drugs. He doesn't use himself, but he’s been dealing. He needs money, but he doesn't want to work."

"How does he get by?"

"Off his girls. He's good looking. Women throw themselves at him. He’s a real gigolo. And he’s a smooth talker—you could listen to him for hours. Let his cellmates enjoy his fairy tales now. But how's your son doing?"

“He’s got a job and he’s plugging away, trying to save up for a car."

"Good for him. That's worth doing."

I say goodbye to Tanka. I'm walking along the fence around the defunct factory. Hurrying along. And suddenly, there it is: that same concrete pipe. It’s still roaring out a stream of rusty, murky liquid, poisoning everything in its path. That toxic stream is still gushing, gurgling, and raging along. Could there be life in the old dog yet?

Translated by J. McVay